illusion

he says write about being the illusionists assistant. about how all things become black and smoke and mirrors. he doesn't know the effect of mirrors from the side, only the front. only the front is what you see. but where i stand i see nick, headset and black gloves sliding open trap doors in the "see completely whole stage."

all stages are built with a trap. even the highschool gym stage built 4 years ago. they dont realize why, those archetechs, they just have the traps included.

i know why with a six foot length ill be suspended over snakes. always snakes. why can't i be the one to appear on the chandiler.

and sometimes i stand, smiling petroleum jelly, wondering if the bid i made on black corset gothic is going to come through, or if some jelly-mold from Ohio will check just in time to out bid, or well maybe i should have bought it one time. she'd only wear it for her mirror. I'd reflect it in the side of this mirror.

he says i should write a short bit about sliding mirrors silently across the dark lit stage, about black lights and black suits, about black silk and his pillow. like miltons ligh that doesn't illuminate, i should illude to the traps waiting to drop me to the substage, to sub dimentions, to sprinted runs and harnesses dropping me again from the chandelier, to my likeness - she'd never wear bunny ears though - so i guess i won't either.

the mirrors inerest me. nick pushes three stage hands through the curtains to dish and receive props and i flash flash petroleum jelly at grandpa and his escort in aisle f. She's wearing bunny ears, and would never look inside the mirror. at its green glass or silver halide skin. she would check her lips and tits and be off again. always gone again. an illusion of 21.

he is an illusions trick, turning mirrorred chop box. no tricks. just illusions.